Breaking Point
by 7Minutes
Summary: Angel's died, Roger's fled, and Mark and Mimi are left behind to pick up the pieces


1Title: (pending)

Author: LindSay S.

Fandom: RENT

Rating: R

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Jonathan Larson, who is hopefully not rolling in his grave as I type this.

Notes: Rating is for language. Some slight OOC-ness, but I've mostly kept it in check. Overtones of M/R, but it could be read either way.

Time: 6:15/10:00

Trudging up the stairs seemed to take a lifetime, but Mark forced himself up anyway. Each step dragged as if someone had tied a brick to each of his ankles, but when he finally reached the door to the loft, a dull sense of dread settled over him where there should have been some kind of relief. He hadn't been back since he'd left for the funeral with Roger that morning. He'd gone straight from there to his meeting with Alexi, but that ended sooner than he expected and he found himself facing an entire afternoon with nothing to do. The thought of going back to the empty apartment, knowing he would be alone, was almost terrifying to him. Life had slammed into him hard that morning, and he wasn't ready to take it all in yet. Only when the sun had gone down and the air turned chill did he start to make his way back.

Mark fumbled for his key and jammed it into the lock. He twisted the knob but stopped before he pushed the door open, resting his forehead on the surface. When he'd been wandering the city he'd been able to find ways to distract himself, ways to push everything out of his head - or to the back of his mind, at least. Now, in the dim hallway, gripping the doorknob as though his very hand could shatter it, his thoughts and emotions were swirling in a mass of confusion. The only thing he felt clearly was the pain, pulling at him, tearing at his mind and his heart. He closed his eyes tightly and rapped his forehead against the door once, a tap to try and clear his head.

"Oh God," he moaned softly, finally letting himself inside. After bolting the door shut, he switched on a lamp, which provided enough light to move around but did nothing to penetrate the shadows. He considered turning on another to illuminate the room more brightly but found he didn't care enough to do so. He simply glanced around as he pulled off his coat, simply letting it drop to the floor in a graceless heap. The place seemed so...so _empty_. It seemed like everything that had made that crummy little apartment a home was gone. Everything was still in its place - in the main room, at least - and yet it felt like everything had been disturbed. As if a robber had broken in, ransacked the place, and when he hadn't found anything valuable, he'd put everything back the way he'd found it.

Roger's door was still open, a detail Mark noted with a particularly sharp pang. Quickly, he crossed the room to shut the door, but he stopped when he reached the doorframe. The room still smelled like Roger, an odd yet strangely intoxicating mix of dirty laundry, fresh paper, smoke, and that cologne he liked. Against his better instincts, Mark stepped into the bedroom and turned on a light with a trembling hand. It almost looked as though he'd never left. Clothes were still strewn all over the floor. The bed was unmade, sheets twisted into the lower right corner. On a milk crate-turned-night stand was an ashtray filled with the butts of cigarettes Roger swore he hadn't been smoking inside. The only things missing were the Fender guitar, a suitcase, and various items of clothing.

And the papers. The sheets of music so carelessly thrown around the room were gone as well. Whether or not Roger had taken them, stashed them away, or destroyed them, Mark wasn't sure.

Looking around the room now, Mark felt his eyes begin to burn. He angrily shook his head and tried to will the tears back, but his efforts were useless as a lump settled in his throat. As he made his way over to the bed and sat on the edge, he knew he was losing it. He'd lost not one but two friends that day, and it was taking its toll on him mentally and emotionally. He hadn't cried since the funeral, hadn't allowed himself to break down since Roger had hurled those hateful words at him and then fled (couldn't even stick around long enough to help fix some of the damage he'd caused). Now, the tears came hot and fast, and there was nothing he could do to stop them. Now he cradled his head in his hands and sobbed, curling into himself in an attempt to stop crying.

How long he stayed like that - a few minutes, an hour - he didn't know, but he was finally interrupted by a knock at the door. Lifting his head, Mark was sure he'd imagined it, but then he heard it, louder than before. Pushing himself off the bed, he turned off the light on his way out, shutting the door firmly behind him. His glasses were smudged from his crying, and he tossed them on the coffee table as he passed. Wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, he opened the door to find Mimi on the other side, poised as though she was about to leave.

She had obviously been crying, her eye makeup running down her cheeks in streaks of black, and when the door opened, she immediately rushed in and threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. Taken aback, Mark belatedly returned the embrace. They stood like that for a brief span of time before Mimi released him.

"Sorry," she said. "God, I just...sorry."

"It's okay," Mark assured as he shut the door again. "Given the circumstances, I mean..."

"I didn't want to freak you out."

"You didn't."

They stood in awkward silence until Mark invited her to take a seat. She accepted readily, taking off her coat and dropping it on top of his as she made her way over to the couch and collapsed. Her movements seemed shaky, but Mark chalked it up to stress from the day's events and put it out of his mind.

"Tea?" he offered, and she nodded slowly. Once he'd put the kettle on, he came back over and sat down next to her, though there was still a considerable distance between them. Though Mark chose to avoid eye contact, Mimi studied him intensely, noticing his red-rimmed eyes the way his shoulders hunched.

"You were crying," she observed, and Mark just shrugged. What was she trying to prove with a comment like that? Of course he had been crying, anyone else who'd been in his situation would be crying as well. It wasn't some great revelation. He glanced at her to find her still staring at him, and he ducked his head, feeling a sort of resentment towards her boldness starting to creep up over him.

"Been a long day" was all he could finally say. His voice sounded hoarse, and he swallowed hard, his downcast eyes staring patterns into the floor. Mimi reached out to touch his cheek and he jerked away from her hand, flinching as though he'd been struck. She immediately pulled back but kept her eyes on him, though he still refused to look up.

"I miss them," she finally said, hoping to draw some sort of reaction out of the silent film maker sitting next to her. The only outward reaction she got was Mark closing his eyes against her, as if he could shut out her words with that one simple action. The distance he was putting between them was annoying her; he was denying her the outlet she was looking for.

"Losing Angel was hard enough," she said, trying again, "but then with Roger just running off..." Her voice caught, but she swallowed it back down. Mark rubbed the back of his neck but still said nothing, though she refused to take her eyes off of him.

"Why don't you say anything?" she asked him. "Anything at all?" He glanced at her again and gave her a little shrug.

"What else is there to say?" he replied. "Words can't fix things. They can't change things, they can't bring people back..." His voice began to falter and he struggled to keep control. "There's just nothing left to say now."

"I've got plenty left to say," Mimi muttered, leaning back. Mark finally turned to her.

"Then say it," he said. "Say whatever you like, I'll sit here and listen, but I'll be damned if I open my mouth one more time today, because it's definitely done me more harm than good so far!"

"You're a coward?"

"What?"

"You're a coward. You're too afraid of facing whatever the hell you're feeling right now. You don't want to deal with it so you're just pushing it off to the side. Just like he said."

That stung, and Mark turned to look at her, really look at her for the first time since he'd invited her in. Her eyes were bloodshot and a thin sheen of sweat covered her face.

"You're high," he murmured, half in disbelief.

"Fuck you," she snapped.

"You're high!" he repeated, grabbing her arm.

"I was high earlier, now I only wish I were high," she retorted, trying clumsily to pull away. "Let me go, goddamnit."

"I can't believe you!" he cried, though he released her arm. "Why…how…what is your…" He trailed off, unable to finish his thought. His head was beginning to spin again.

"And you call me a coward," he finally muttered, still incredulous.

"Oh, now you're going to tell me _I'm_ the one who has a problem? I'm sorry, is this like running away from every shitty thing? Am I 'disconnecting?' Trying to fill the void my life has become?" Her tone was mocking, almost cruel. "Well, I'm sorry that you don't like what I do, and I'm sorry the choices I make don't live up to your fucking standards, but you'd better take a long, hard look at yourself before you start throwing accusations around, you spineless little geek!"

"I think you should leave," Mark said abruptly, pushing himself off the couch.

"Oh you think so?" Mimi snapped, getting up as well. "Pushing away everything as usual, huh Mark?" When he didn't respond, staring at the floor in silence, she said, "Roger was right about you."

Her words were like daggers which she hurled at him, and every one hit its mark. His vision began to cloud and he blinked back tears angrily.

"I mean it," he said, praying his voice wouldn't betray the hurt he was feeling. "Just…just leave."

"He was, though." She was ignoring his request as she advanced on him. "You think you're so lonely, so misunderstood-"

"Stop it," Mark muttered, backing away.

"But you're the one who chose to be that way!"

Mark tried to step around her but she blocked his path, taking another step towards him.

"Are you too scared to have any friends? Is that why you spend every day hiding behind that fucking camera?"

"Just stop!" Mark exploded, turning away from her. His shoulders shook with the sobs he was trying desperately to hold in. He didn't want her to see him break all over again.

"What, you can't let me see you cry? Funny, you didn't have a problem letting him see!"

Mark whirled on her, any tears forgotten.

"And what about you?" he cried. "He loved you, Mimi. He _loved_ you! He hasn't opened up to anyone like that in over a year – _anyone!_ And what do you do? You toss him off to the side whenever you get a chance to get high! So what's really the most important thing to you, huh? You said you miss him? Yeah, you miss him so much you just had to get some smack on the way home!"

"Fuck you!" Mimi spat, her eyes smoldering like coals. "I love him. I do! You don't know how this is tearing me up. So I needed a fix to deal with all this shit? Who the fuck are you to tell me whether I'm right or wrong? You don't know a damn thing about me. You don't know anything at all!"

"I know that he left because of you! It's your fault he's gone!"

The fight ended with that, as abruptly as it had begun. His words hung in the air between them, invisible as glass, impenetrable as cement. Neither one moved. In the kitchen, the kettle began to whistle.

"Mimi-" Mark began, but she cut him off.

"You're water's boiling" was all she said, her voice now dull and lifeless. "You'd better go get it." Her eyes refused to meet his, and the fire inside her seemed to have died. Mark had a mind to go to her, to apologize and take back the harsh accusations he'd just throw at her, but instead he went into the kitchen to take the kettle off. When he came back to the common room she was gone, the front door wide open, her coat still lying on the floor with his.


End file.
